


/i was cured, alright (and heaven knows i'm miserable now)

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: F is for Family (Cartoon)
Genre: Abuse, Dacryphilia, F/M, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slurs, Spit As Lube, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Vomiting, franklin pee him pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25685572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Frank's half-romance with Chet Stevenson comes to a brutal and sudden end.
Relationships: Frank Murphy/Chet Stevenson, Frank Murphy/Susan Murphy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	/i was cured, alright (and heaven knows i'm miserable now)

**Author's Note:**

> i had thousands of characters worth of chet/frank porn that got lost by the AO3 draft-consumption machine and im very mad but ig it gives me a chance to improve on some things. heed the tags im a mean motherfucker. it's unbeta'd because i just wanted to post this shit already.
> 
> also yes this has two titles i couldn't pick one. the first is a quote from A Clockwork Orange and the second is a Smiths song.

There was something so different about him. Different from any other man Frank had witnessed. He carried himself with an unmatched confidence, a real man's man. Were Frank not so drawn to the man, he may very well have been jealous. But no, something else was pervasive within him. Whatever it was, it allowed _that thing_ to happen.

But to discuss _that thing_ without its context would make Frank seem perverse.

And, perhaps, he was. No better than an animal.

He and the wife hadn't been having much sex lately. In general, they didn't do it too often, usually at the end of the day they were both too tired to so much as think. But it'd become even _less_ often, because Sue was pregnant, and Frank would have vivid nightmares of finding the umbilical cord wrapped around his cock post-coitus. And that was fine. Frank had never once thought of forcing himself on his wife, and never would. Moreso, he just wished she'd force herself on him once in a while.

A dry spell isn't a _huge_ deal in your thirties, but it did become a little bit troublesome. Especially when he and the neighbors were gathered around some cold ones on his front yard, and _he_ came along. Chet Stevenson, in his slightly-unbuttoned shirt. Wet, most likely with sweat, the fabric clung between his war-hardened pecs. This was the first time Frank had seen the new neighbor, and it made him feel something strange, foreign, and unwelcome. His hand shook around his beer can, sending droplets up through the metal lip and onto his fingers. Of course, it didn't _mean_ anything, they hardly knew each other. But it _would_ mean something.

The two of them eventually got to know each other, over maybe a week or two. Nobody else in the little cul-de-sac had seen war, which, Frank supposed, made him and Chet kindred spirits of some sort. But what happened later wasn't based in a feeling of kinship. Frank would struggle to figure out what moment lead to it.

He knew when he himself fell for the man. It was when they were visiting the air base, and Chet was flirting with that nice woman. Frank dumbly wished someone would talk about _him_ like that once in awhile, and then suddenly wondered why the hell he'd want that. But catching Chet's blue-eyed gaze made his heart flutter and jump up into his throat, a feeling he hadn't felt for anyone but, well, his wife. That seemed ridiculous, though. He felt nothing for the woman Chet had just accosted, but Chet was there. But he was a _man_. That would be beyond insane, to the point that it crossed Frank's mind as little more than a joke. Chet must've caught his stunned silence, because he shot Frank an odd look.

A near-death "prank" in an airplane did little to deter whatever the feeling was. In fact, Frank could hardly sleep that night. He took a walk, and on passing the Stevenson household, he caught the unmistakable sound of husband and wife having sex. He flushed. A new sensation was introduced, one far scarier, that sent him running with his shirt tugged down between his legs.

Interacting with the man became strange. Because suddenly, when seeing him, Frank's mind was overwhelmed with images that frightened him beyond comprehension. Chet's body, usually nude or semi-nude. Very little happened in these fantasies. What _could_ happen in them? The only woman Frank was truly attracted to was his own wife, but his thoughts about her didn't mesh well with his thoughts of Chet. The idea of another man laying with his wife made Frank ill. He worried about it, not because he believed Sue was unfaithful, but because she deserved better. He certainly didn't want to imagine Chet fucking Nguyen-Nguyen, even if it was realistic. Nothing about the spoils of Chet's Vietnamese conquest appealed to Frank. So the images he conjured were just a nude body in stasis, not doing anything, because there was nothing it _could_ be doing.

2 AM, Frank woke up feeling, well, _sticky_.

Only moments prior, he was _sure_ he saw it. There he was, out on the lawn with the wife and kids doing _normal family stuff_ when Chet waved him into his car. They must've planned to do whatever was about to happen. A long, silent drive. Partway through, Chet placed his hand on Frank's thigh, a place where no man's hand belonged. But there it was, and it rubbed gently over the clothed expanse. They pulled over on the side of an empty road, in the middle of nowhere, and Frank internally remarked that he had fat, ugly legs. They were stopped, and Chet's massive hand fluttered over to Frank's crotch, settling down over it. The pressure felt immense. Frank could hear his own heartbeat.

How they changed position, and shifted to the back seat, must've been cut from the film reel playing in his mind. Of course, he didn't question it in his unconscious state. What he did know was that Chet was slathering _something_ onto his asshole, and Chet was about to fuck him. He could see his own face, ugly and whorish and unrecognizable. He behaved wantonly, opening up for the intrusion and feeling every inch of his skin pulse with an almighty need. His cheeks burned, and his mouth hung open.

Frank couldn't remember how it ended, so that must have been the end.

Assessing the damage quickly, he realized he'd cummed in his sleep like a teenage boy. He hadn't known he was even still capable of such a thing. His body, in something akin to a second sexual awakening, grew overwhelmed and shot out a load without even being touched. He was buried in a desire to cry, but couldn't produce any emotional reaction other than to throw the soiled boxer shorts in the garbage outside. Gazing towards Chet's house, the lights were still on, so he ran back inside as fast as he could.

There was no way he could be normal around the man after that. Because now that static nude figure had something to do. Some _one_ to do. All of the details filled themselves in by force, like the theoretical feeling of Chet's strong hands on Frank's shoulders, or that husky voice telling him how gorgeous he looked like _this_. Or, more accurately, that same husky voice calling him a nasty fag for wanting him in such a way. He'd deserve it, for sure, he'd deserve it more than anything anyone had ever said about him before that. Whenever he ducked out of neighborhood gatherings with a red face and a stiffy, all he could think was that he deserved such treatment, such cruelty.

That was when she said it.

"Mr. Chet wants to have drink with you." Nguyen-Nguyen stated, practically tripping over her own thick accent, which Frank couldn't ignore no matter how hard he tried. He also couldn't ignore a direct invitation from the man himself. "He says you come over to his house."

"Sure, I'll, uh, I'll tell the guys, and--"

"Just you." She smiled, but in a way that seemed... uncomfortable. "I make you old-fashioned."

"I, uh, I dunno if I..."

"I reschedule, then."

"No, it's... uh, when did he want to?"

"Tonight." 

Frank wasn't sure if he was ready, but clearly the lady of the house wasn't backing down.

"Uh, why couldn't he tell me?"

"Said he didn't feel like it. Told me to tell you."

He still agreed. For some reason, he did, despite the warning signs.

* * *

Things had never gone south quite as fast as they did that night. Never before had his night been so quickly ruined. Until he walked through that door, Frank may have even said he'd never truly suffered. (Of course, this was a lie, one he'd go back on every time something went wrong. But this was the wrongest of them all.)

1\. He knocked on the door.

2\. Nguyen-Nguyen answered the door.

3\. He stepped inside and promptly got whacked on the back of the head.

That was the series of events, as far as he could remember. He took one step into the house and suddenly was blinded by a pain in the back of his skull, before he knew it he was on the floor surrounded by the green shards of a broken beer bottle. His ears rang, the only thing he could really make sense of was Nguyen-Nguyen's voice. She was saying "sorry sorry sorry" over and over, until the word lost all meaning. In an attempt to move his arms, Frank realized he couldn't really. They must've been fastened behind his back. When a hand gripped his chin, it was one he'd recognize anywhere, and he wanted to bury himself in the warm touch, even though he was in so much pain.

"Didn't think you'd actually come. Was hopin' you'd know better." Chet squatted down, so their eyes met a little better. "You really are some kind'a queer."

"Huh?" Frank fluttered his eyelids. His glasses broke when he hit the floor, and now he could feel the shards sticking deep into his face.

"I've seen plenty of fags in the military." The smell of Chet's cigar wafted into Frank's nose, at a proximity so close that Frank may as well have been smoking it himself. The man also had whiskey on his breath, clearly drunk as a skunk. "You're a textbook fucking closet case. I see the way you look at me."

"Jesus Christ, Chet, I'm married." Frank was unable to put much force behind his words, what with the throbbing pain embedded in his skull. 

"You think that means shit? You take me for an idiot?" Chet snorted, pressing the lit cigar into Frank's cheek. It burned, not a lot, but it did burn. It wasn't foreign to him, though. "Constantly vying for my attention like a jealous bitch. I should've known it from the beginning."

It seemed that Chet just happened to be right, but clearly his ideas were a result of paranoia. But he was _still_ right. Frank wondered if there was something he could've done differently, but his mind was far too fried. "I'm gonna fix you right." Chet walked out of view, but his presence was replaced by a powerful impact. Sudden. Frank felt like his side was caving in. He flopped a bit, like a corpse. Chet stood at his full height, something like six-foot-three. Swiftly, his foot sunk into Frank's nose, snapping the bone crooked.

He could still hear her voice going "sorry sorry sorry". It ended when Chet told her to _shut up, bitch_. Silence. Chet knelt beside Frank with his sleeves rolled up. "I'm gonna break you right." He muttered, and the next few minutes was just a blur. Chet punched him again and again. In the belly and the face, mostly. His glasses were now a curved set of wires, his eyes practically bruised shut. Like a summer peach, bruises blossomed across his body, at some point Chet just turned him over and straddled his chest so he could beat his face in over and over.

Frank wondered if his nose had caved in. Maybe the prickly bones were clinging to Chet's knuckles like eggshells. A loose tooth rolled down the back of his throat, then another. He couldn't make himself angry. This was what he'd wanted the whole time.

Now he'd just realize that his thoughts were no good. Now he'd know better.

At least, that was the direction Frank expected things to take. As Chet paused his beating, Frank wondered if he'd finally be set free. The sound of a zipper opening made his heart leap into his throat, like it had that other time, but this time it wasn't in a good way, not in the slightest. His eyesight was blurred, but he'd heard the sound enough in the men's room. "Look what you did, fairy boy." He could feel it against his lips. Hard, hot, and pounding. "Do your fuckin' job."

Frank was too scared to open his mouth. Chet probably knew this, even in his drunken state. Clumsily, the man reached behind him with one hand. Whatever he was trying to do took a bit of adjusting, but his massive palm touching the lower half of Frank's belly was already too much. He could feel himself stiffening in spite of the circumstances. Once said palm settled over Frank's still clothed crotch, he couldn't help but gasp in some state of shock. This moment was taken for Chet to stuff himself halfway down Frank's throat, a cock far thicker and longer and _heavier_ than Frank's own, a fact that made him want to disappear into nothingness. 

He felt ugly, and small.

Chet grabbed onto Frank's hair, wispy in some areas and thick in others, and pushed in further. Frank had received blowjobs before, but he never did it with such force. It was more like Chet was fucking his head than anything else. The wound on the back of his scalp smacked repeatedly into the hardwood floor. He closed his eyes and suddenly his body felt detached from his mind, like he'd floated out of it. His lashes fluttered, and he thought about other things. Like whether or not Nguyen-Nguyen would still make him that old fashioned. Or if he might die tonight, and whether or not that'd be a blessing. 

His wife would look lovely in black.

"I'm gonna cum." Chet growled in his ear. "You're gonna swallow."

When he returned to his body, his jaw ached and eyes burned with tears at their edges. His skin prickled with goosebumps. Bile was rocking inside of him like a boat on troubled waters, he swore he might throw up on Chet's cock. And he'd feel bad. He'd _apologize_. 

Chet gripped his scalp tightly, burying himself to the hilt. Frank's body tensed as he realized no air could get into his lungs. The bitter taste of semen barely registered in his mind, eyes bulging but world fading. He couldn't breathe, he was really going to die. Snot bubbled from his nose and over his upper lip, he was prepared to lose consciousness. He thought about how he'd done nothing with his life and been a horrible person to everybody he'd ever met. Sue's father had been right about everything, and now he was going to die, engaged in sex acts with another man -- one who he'd lusted after, no less. His funeral would be the only time Kevin had ever worn a suit in his life, and all the kids would be stone-faced and serious.

Air entered his lungs as Chet withdrew. Frank gurgled and threw up on himself, which earned him a smack across his already-bruised face. He didn't care, sucking in breath after breath, coughing and hacking up dollops of white. He cried out the word _help_ , which Chet didn't take kindly to, as another fist crashed into his already-mangled nose.

"Don't you fucking call for help. You _know_ I'm armed to the teeth in this house."

Frank had no witty retort in mind. "I'm gonna give you what you want."

"W're not done?" Frank slurred, chest heaving.

"Not by a mile!" Chet slid off of Frank's chest, becoming blurry due to the distance between them. _I really needed those glasses._ "Fags like you aren't satisfied by that softball shit." He tugged Frank's belt hastily through the loops and set it aside, but close by. A hot hand was on the fly of Frank's pants and _oh god oh fuck he was still hard._ Chet tugged Frank's cock out, scoffing at it. Probably due to the size, or just the fact that Frank had a boner after all of this shit. 

It was a little awkward, the way Chet had to remove Frank's shoes before slowly tugging his jeans and underpants off, so they hung loose around one foot. He still had his socks on, which Frank was slightly amused by in spite of everything else. Chet loudly spat onto his hand, pushing Frank's legs up and slapping the saliva onto Frank's asshole. Frank wasn't sure if it was possible to go pale and bright red at the same time, but assumed he must have been doing that exact thing. "You even carry yourself like a woman. All soft and dainty and shit. I should've known from the beginning, of course you're a goddamn homo."

"Chet, Chet, Jesus Christ, don't fucking do this to me."

" _You_ did this to _me_."

Frank had never seen a man so angry in his life. Korean soldiers with their gun barrels waving around looked neighborly in comparison. Frank suspected that, in truth, he'd done nothing to deserve it, but perhaps that Chet had simply read his body language and was smart enough to put everything together. (This was generous of him to believe.)

With a trembling hand, Chet angled his length between Frank's legs, tongue poked out in concentration. Frank hoped that if he stared at the ceiling hard enough, maybe he'd float out of his skin again and the pain would disappear. But nothing ever went his way. Not a damn thing. The ridge of muscles around his anus were tight, enough that a little bit of spit-lube wouldn't make entering a whole lot easier. But Chet was nothing if not persistent, and soon enough the glans breached the sphincter, prying it apart in a way that burned.

It was like Frank had an open wound, and it was being torn wider, and wider.

His face was bright red as he yowled, the same way a cat might, and his spine twisted as if it might free him from this mess. It was slow. Nothing like the blowjob. Frank wished it was that fast, but it was slow, and grueling, and unbearable. He wasn't sure if he'd been crying before, but he definitely was now. 

" _Stop_." It was barely a whisper when he said it. Chet ignored him.

"Look at that face. If you were a broad, I'd have probably fucked you anyway." The man's smile was all teeth, no lips. "Ugly chicks always give the best reactions when you fuck 'em, give 'em the time of day and you basically own 'em. We'd oughtta nip your cock off, huh? What'll your name be, then? Francine?"

Frank sobbed out loud. He _hated_ that name. And he hated how much Chet looked like his father right now: tall, abusive and imposing, with a boozy stench wafting off of him. Chet could probably tell Frank didn't like it, because he added, "Don't look so blue, sweetheart." Chet was all the way in. Now their waists were touching. It reminded him of Sue. Only they'd done something this intimate, this _personal_. But this was his reality now. Sex, like everything else, pried from his hands. Another source of happiness, gone. What next? Were his goddamn kids gonna get shot?

Whatever he was thinking about didn't matter, because the actual process of sex began. The thrusting part. For the most part, Frank was in too much pain to be humiliated. It felt like his innards were being pulled out and pushed back, over and over. They were probably damaged now. He'd probably be in adult diapers for a month and everyone at work would just start referring to him as "that guy who shits his pants". He'd probably have to get ass stitches. And a divorce, because who the fuck would want to be married to a closet queer?

Chet hiked Frank's legs over his shoulders. _God, he had fat legs._ But when he was pushed into again, suddenly Chet hit something that made Frank's eyes flash with a white light. It felt _good_. That was much, much worse than it feeling bad. "Found where it feels good, Francine." 

"Don't," Frank had to catch his breath, which seemed to be constantly getting faster, "don't call me that."

Chet ignored him again, instead beginning to piston in and out much faster than before. His hands gripped Frank's button-down, pulling it open, and he grabbed on as if Frank really had a set of tits. Frank hadn't realized how sensitive his nipples were, _why the fuck would he pay attention to something like that_ , but having them flicked and pinched at unceremoniously sure did make him aware. The noises he made were half-anguished and half-obscene.

His breathing was far too fast, now, his chest heaved and throat seemed to convulse. He didn't _want_ to like this, he'd be better off killing himself if that was the case, and it was. Chet had gone silent, seemingly incapable of concentrating on fucking _and_ taunting while in his drunken state.

"Fat tits," was all he could manage.

Whenever Chet hit the back of his pelvis, just the right spot, Frank saw stars. His teeth gritted together. He whined, tears covering his already-moist face. A hand gripped his cock, big enough to cover nearly the whole thing, and without even thinking he rocked into the touch the same way an animal might. 

He was too far gone.

He wailed.

In earnest, he wailed, enough to feel a tearing in his throat and a thumping in his chest. Because he _was_ a faggot, he _was_ a pervert, he _was_ an animal. Something in him was broken that made him like this. He should've died overseas. He humped into Chet's palm with reckless abandon, bawling all the while. Even without his glasses, he could almost recognize an expression of love in Chet's blurry face, and it was horrible. A lot like how Sue looked at him in high school, but also very, very different.

"Say you're fuckin' sorry!" Chet shouted at him. Frank didn't know why he was being asked to apologize, but he definitely knew what to apologize for.

"I'm sorry!" He had more reasons to be sorry than anyone else on earth. Hitler would've spat at him. His weak state must've sent Chet over the edge, because soon enough he was being hammered into with no thought or care put into it. Frank kept on apologizing, _sorry sorry sorry sorry_. With a strange grunt, Chet buried himself deep and came inside.

Frank always wondered how it felt. In truth, it felt like nothing. But he dry heaved anyway, about three times, and came on himself as Chet finished him off.

At that point, Frank was too tired to think at all. He felt so low he could kill himself, only prevented from doing such by his physical exhaustion. Nguyen-Nguyen freed his hands, her own shaking violently. _Had she been watching the whole time?_ Chet was long gone, but Frank had nothing left to say to him, anyway. He tugged his pants back on with great difficulty, noting the streaks of his own semen that covered his belly, which he wiped off with his shirt. There was a dollop of cum and blood left on the floor, the rest of which leaked into his underpants and left a questionable stain.

He staggered out the door, barely able to keep himself on both feet. His house was barely a stone's toss away, but it felt like miles to traverse. He could tell he'd pissed himself at some point, because of the unmistakable damp patch on the front of his jeans, but couldn't remember when. He didn't have the energy to hold his urine, and if it'd hide the jizz leak in the back, maybe it was alright. (Never before had Frank considered wetting himself to be "alright" until this moment, but considering the circumstances, it didn't seem so bad.) He couldn't face his family. Fuck, he couldn't face anybody like this, a used-up old thing that liked getting his ass fucked by other men. So at the point that he reached his house, he simply curled up on the lawn.

The cool grass tickled his face, tipped with early morning dew. It made some of his bruises feel just a little bit less irritated. Suicide was looking even more appealing than usual. Even if his wife forgave him, he couldn't forgive himself. The moon was still in the sky, a smeared sliver in Frank's vision. He wished it would fall on him, or something, so he wouldn't have to do the job himself, because he was too chicken-shit to tie a noose.

There was one upside though: Frank never wanted to see Chet again, for as long as he lived.

So at least he was cured of that.


End file.
